Say It
by xblurryfacex
Summary: Sherlock returns from his adventures in being "dead", but John has a little different way of reacting. Story set without Mary and different from happenings in the show. Johnlock


**This is just a story that is like what would take place in my mind after John and Sherlock are reunited. Mary is not in the picture, and scenes are real and not real based on the show. Thanks loves ~**

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John tried to slam the door behind him, but Sherlock stuck his hand through the crack and swung it back open with just as much force.

"I thought you'd be happy to see me!" Sherlock said, exasperated and confused. John, on the other hand, stormed around 221B, stirring up dust that had sat there for too long a time. You could see the clouds of particles through the light shining through the window, throwing shadows on the walls.

"Happy? How on earth, Sherlock, could I be happy about seeing you?"

"For the most obvious reasons!" Sherlock shouted, throwing his hands in the air. "I left, and now I'm back. That should bring you _some_ kind of joy!"

John pressed his head into his hands and breathed heavily. "Sherlock, listen to me-"

"No, John-"

"Sherlock, listen-"

"John-"

"Sherlock!" John screamed, the sound echoing off the walls and reverberating, bouncing around in Sherlock's head. He promptly closed his mouth, staring at John with his fists balled up at his sides and the vein pulsing in his head.

"What would you do, Sherlock, if I were to take the gun from my pocket and put a bullet through my head right now? What would you do?"

Sherlock tried to answer, but John cut him off.

"Now imagine sitting here, helpless, as I was dead on the floor. Imagine it, Sherlock. Imagine me, betraying you, leaving you here, alone, confused."

Sherlock and John each held each other's stare, their eyes never leaving the other's.

"When you jumped off the building, or, when you pretended to, I saw you hit the ground and I saw the blood on your smashed-in face. I saw you dead, in my arms. For two years, I was wrecked. I was struggling with depression and severe anxiety and I didn't leave this flat for weeks." At the last part of his sentence, John, stamped his foot and pointed at the room around them. After a moment, he walked over to a box half-hazardly shoved in the corner. From it, he pulled one of Sherlock's shirts, a scarf, and some other seemingly meaningless belongings of his.

"This was you. This box. This was where I was until I could support myself again. Until I was starting to mend myself and _accept _that you were gone. And what do you do? What do you _bloody _do, Sherlock Holmes? You march on into London and expect me to come running back? I thought you were dead! I mourned you! I –" he held his tongue, fizzling out. Tears slid down his face. He wiped them away roughly and sat down on the arm of Sherlock's chair.

It was quiet for a moment. The two just stared at each other.

"You think it wasn't hard for me to ignore you? To completely disregard everyone here in London while I was off, "dead?" I had my fair share of struggles too, John."

"You suffered far less than I did, Sherlock, believe me."

"I do believe you. I broke you beyond repair and… I've only made it worse."

"No shit."

Sherlock managed a chuckle. It was quiet again.

"Will you forgive me?"

John held his gaze, the words foreign coming from that man's mouth.

"Please, will you do this for me? Forgive me?"

The air turned cold around them as Sherlock realized what he'd said. His form stiffened and he reached a hand out to John. "No, I-"

But the tear had already rolled down his face and John was standing and turning to walk in the opposite direction of his friend.

"John, please, I-"

"Can't you see, can't you _possibly _see you've done enough damage?" he yelled in a blind rage, tears now streaming down his face. "I cared for you. You were my best friend, the best-" he choked on the word, swallowing hard. "And I loved you."

In one, long stride, Sherlock was there and had John's face in his hands, pulling the man to his head and holding him, just looking in his eyes before bringing their lips together. John's arms wrapped around Sherlock's thin frame, his hands clawing at his back probably too hard, but Sherlock would not care. And John could care less about anything in the world. Because here was his Sherlock, here, in his arms.

The kiss started gentle, unsure, almost, but quickly turned needy, desperate, a kiss that they had waited for for far too long. They came apart, eyes closed, and just stood there, madly holding the other as if they could disappear any second.

"I'm so sorry." Sherlock whispered.

"Say it, you bastard." John whispered back. Sherlock chuckled.

"I love you."


End file.
